


i'll pull it together and fix myself eventually

by hackercatz (tsunbrownie)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (the relationship is established but everything else is slow burn), ??? tags 2 be added idk what, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Gen, Slow Burn, angel!Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 08:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19787113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunbrownie/pseuds/hackercatz
Summary: Crowley – at least what used to be Crowley – removed his sunglasses, and his eyes were glowing with a faint streak of heavenly gold instead of Crowley’s usual defining mustard eyes with slitted pupils resembling that of a snake. “My name is Raphael. Now, do you mind telling me where I am?”In which Heaven attempts to sabotage the relationship between Aziraphale and Crowley with the help of a device that reverts time, and it blows up spectacularly on their faces.





	1. 0. prologue // the cat's out of the box now

**Author's Note:**

> my 9000 wips: ???? 
> 
> anyways i have no self control and i have an important exam in 35 days so no promises on updating this frequently before the exam (hopefully i can get a few chapters out though) but i have this really weird fixation w/ angel!crowley that won't leave me. i have no idea where this is going but i like it so let's hope i actually get it done

Aziraphale had been an _idiot_.

All the signs were right in front of him: Heaven wouldn’t have given up without a fight, even with their little demonstration via a simple sleight of hand (or in this case, sleight of being) just like hell – after all, haven’t they proven they were no better than their acquaintances in ever-burning fire? Of course they would send reinforcements. Of course they’d go after Aziraphale in the one place he’d always be, his bookshop. Crowley knew better, coldly pragmatic and logical Crowley had been right as always when he had insisted there should at least be some form of warding that would at least inform Aziraphale if anyone with sinister intent entered his bookshop, so that he’d have time to flee. Aziraphale merely laughed it off, saying Heaven wouldn’t try again so soon, and they wouldn’t do it on Earth where it could shake the human’s foundations (propaganda) of belief in Heaven and its holiness.

He’s been wrong. Heaven no longer cared about humans and their contemporary beliefs. Or perhaps they never did – to them, humanity always has only been nothing but a stepping stone. A path towards their war and eventual victory in the final fight. Doing what was expected of them to pass the time.

And his ignorance had cost Crowley.

The weapon had been aimed at Aziraphale, and Crowley, in that split moment, took the shot in his stead and crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The scream had brought the angel out of the near trance that came whenever he was absorbed in his book, and Aziraphale immediately rushed to Crowley’s side, ignoring how the assailant immediately fled at the spark of fury that burnt terrifyingly at a single glance.

Crowley wasn’t breathing (although not a good standard for determining life and death of a celestial being considering they had no need for it) but he was spasming and flinching as if high-voltage electricity had been – and continuing to – flow through him. “Angel,” Crowley barely spat out, “Angel- B’careful-“

“Ssh, my dear, just try to hold your strength,” Aziraphale reached forward to lend a comforting hand. It seemed to help Crowley, because the demon leaned towards the touch and promptly turned silent.

It did stop eventually, the shaking. The entire time he’d collected Crowley into his arms and cradled him, guilt needling him to merely observe while the demon recovered. _If he’d only taken precautions, if he’d only been more careful_ , the traitorous voices of his own soul accused him, and he swallowed and forced them down as he carefully looked for any signs of injury. The blast from whatever weapon Heaven chose to employ was white, blindingly white, and considering that Crowley hasn’t dissipated into smoke he accepted the small mercy that it wasn’t holy water – at least they haven’t chosen to utilize the same weapon twice, thinking the first time was a false positive, because it would have destroyed Crowley. 

“Crowley? Who’s Crowley?” Crowley murmured softly, coughing harshly and bringing his mouth in a fevered attempt to calm it – which didn’t work even in the slightest, but it muffled the sound. When the spasms eventually subsided, Crowley – at least what used to be Crowley – removed his sunglasses, and his eyes were glowing with a faint streak of heavenly gold instead of Crowley’s usual defining mustard eyes with slitted pupils resembling that of a snake. “My name is Raphael. Now, do you mind telling me where I am?”


	2. 1. synonymous but not equivalent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale notices the similarities and the differences, and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crowley, angel or not, still does not get along with any of the seraphim, especially gabriel. aziraphale is so confused he transcends into calmness. em dash has been abused. 
> 
> also when i said "i don't have time for this" i apparently meant "i have time for this" so you guys get this youre welcome i hate bio

Aziraphale knows Raphael yet does not know him. An oxymoron accompanied with a perfect explanation.

Aziraphale knows Raphael as any other angel knows him: he is the angel of healing and medicine – the only seraphim that have detached themselves from the infernal bureaucracy of Heaven in favor of helping those in need in the worlds below. Yet that is all he knows, because that was all Heaven had informed all of them – now that Aziraphale thinks about it, he doesn’t remember a single witness count of Raphael ever being seen. Before, he would have believed what had been outright told to him; that Raphael has assimilated himself so well within the mortals in order to do his job, and that he would return when the time required him to. After all, who’d think a seraph would _Fall_?

He wonders if this is why only Gabriel, Uriel and Michael came to corner him in the bookshop that day, without the fourth of their group. With the Apocalypse so near, it would make sense for an angel of such caliber to return from their mission to ready themselves for war, didn’t it? Even _Aziraphale,_ who was a Principality, was prompted to return – it could be said less about an angel of Raphael’s caliber.

He’s honestly lost on how to handle this discovery – that Raphael had fallen, and that Crowley was Raphael. He knows Crowley doesn’t enjoy talking about the Fall and before because it reminds him painfully of what he’s become which is why he never pushed for an explanation, but he couldn’t believe – Crowley was _Raphael_ – _and he never bothered to tell Aziraphale_ –

He’s gone and made himself and the seraphim some tea, because brewing the cup brought some form of normalcy in this insane predicament he managed to place himself in. Raphael, thankfully, doesn’t seem to share Gabriel’s disgust for food and beverages. He does stare at it confused for a while and holds the saucer with both his hands. Aziraphale takes a experimental sip, hoping it’d prompt the other to follow suit.

“Err, what do you last remember?” Aziraphale questions softly, not knowing where to begin the whole experience. _Hello Raphael, my name is Aziraphale, and I knew you as Crowley, a snake demon who I first met on the Eastern Gate of Eden, and we continued to liaise loosely throughout the next six thousand years. We’re sort of dating now, I’ve been informed, then you lost all your memories so I’m not sure where that puts our positions in. Want some sugar with that?_

Incognizant of the internal monologue flowing within Aziraphale’s mind, the seraphim cocks his head before dutifully responding to the question. “I was assisting the Almighty in the construction of the universe,” Raphael replies coolly, taking a sip of his tea (chamomile with a dash of sugar, Crowley’s usual style) “the countless stars in the sky, you see. Everyone else thought it was tedious work, but I found the whole process romantic. The vast, wide universe being at our disposal, all the stories we could tell with it as our medium…” the other angel drifts off, a wistful smile dancing on his lips. Aziraphale reaches forward to refill the saucer. “Although a lot of time seems to have passed since then. It seems that the almighty has finished building his–“

“Hers,” Aziraphale automatically corrects, and Raphael stares back, boggled.

“You’ve spoken to hi-her?”

“It was most a single-sided conversation, I’m afraid. She asked me where I’ve misplaced my flaming sword.”

Raphael lets out a proper laugh at that. “I used to lose things all the time, too! Anything but my wings, it used to drive Gabriel crazy. Never got admonished by the Almighty for that, though, I’ll take that as a victory. Although I would’ve liked to speak to her at least once.”

“You must have, considering your position,” Aziraphale frowns.

“Nah,” Raphael flings his hand up, “not really. I usually got my orders from Metatron. We all did, the four of us. Metatron is the voice of God and all, but he’s not _actually_ God. And I guess this is good a confirmation as any other. Or maybe things changed. How many years has it been?”

“Six thousand,” Aziraphale tells him honestly. There seems to be no point to lying, and he prefers telling the truth when possible, especially after the whole ‘ _hiding the antichrist_ ’ fiasco that ended as a disaster.

“ _Six thousand?_ ” The seraphim’s mouth drops down, forming an impressive O. “Six thousand years? Wait, shouldn’t the Apocalypse- “

“It’s been averted,” a beat, “by us.”

“Oh, thank _god_ ,” Raphael breathes out. “I hated the whole prophecy of damnation. Especially how much Gabriel was looking forward to the bloodshed. ‘Settle the score’, my ass, he just wanted somewhere to sharpen the sword, must be the best one wherever he goes. And don’t even get started on Michael, that wanker-“

Something about this entire rant is so extremely _Crowley_ that Aziraphale can’t help but crack a smile at the angel fussing about other seraphim. Raphael catches him staring and smiles back easily and effortlessly.

“You and he must have been close,” Raphael muses – far too perceptive for his own good, Crowley’s always been, but so blind in the oddest of ways. It must have been a trait that he was born with, Aziraphale thinks. “That is, Crowley. Which seems to be my name for the future.”

“Yes,” the confession comes out as easy as the flow of water now, having had time to be considered in multitude of ways. But, it’s especially easy to Raphael who Aziraphale can now undoubtedly see as the foundation of who Crowley is, yet lacking the emotional baggage and the cynicism that stem from it. “

Raphael snorts. “Yeah, Gabriel probably has it _out_ for me. Us. Bastard always hated me – perfectly mutual, by the way – is that what happened? Did he finally snap and kill me? I seem to have lost a full six thousand years of memories.”

“No, ah, he sent an angel to shoot at _me_ , but you intercepted the bullet – or whatever came out of the machine.”

“Then, after six thousand years, I suppose one personality trait of mine has stayed intact,” Raphael murmurs, pleased.

Yet so much _has_ changed. Perhaps the very core of who Raphael was had been transferred to Crowley – his love for humanity and all living things, the skies and the universe, along with that last bit of compassion and caring that makes his villainy (usually involving annoying pranks) significantly less distasteful than whatever the common demon may devise – yet Aziraphale would not believe the angel perched opposite of him is Crowley. No, Raphael is a shadow of Crowley, the man he was and perhaps the man he could have been, but not Crowley. Aziraphale realizes he misses the demon terribly.

He hasn’t felt this terrified even during the apocalypse. For the first time in six thousand years, he’s _truly_ alone, and he doesn’t know what to do next.

When he returned with tea, he had the full intentions of telling Raphael of his fate. Honestly was promised, the lesson learned painfully. He isn’t sure now – would Raphael return to how Crowley perceived himself, brittle and sharp edges across his skin as a defense mechanism, ignoring how it cuts back into him? Even if it’s for a short while, even if it’s not truly Crowley, there’s a sense of childish innocence that is nonexistent in Crowley as it is prominent in Raphael, and Aziraphale finds the strongest urge to protect it. In that split second, he decides.

“Now, could you tell me what happened to me? Fill me in on how our relationship is to be?” When the eventual question that has been brewing in Raphael’s mind ever since he woke up from his trance is asked of him, Aziraphale focuses on his and Crowley’s relationship over the years and carefully omits the parts about his Fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (something about this chapter feels rly odd to me but i prob won't find it unless i post it so if it gets edited just,,,, Think that was the reason why)
> 
> +++ if this fic goes by planning next one should be in raphael's pov but no promises


End file.
